At My Worst
by Lastavica
Summary: Death, silence, fatigue. These were her world until the day she began to feel something like eyes watching her at a distance.


Thought I'd finally try my hand at a Clint & Nat "He was sent to kill me. He made a different call." scenario.

Enjoy.

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* * *

Natasha was so tired.

She could not remember experiencing such fatigue during the black widow program, not physically anyway. The doctors there had done things to her body, alterations. Those were permanent. But the drug regiments, the post mission comas, the IVs, all those she rejected when she ran. For what, she was no longer certain. It had been some childish notion of authenticity, of leading ones own life. A dream, had only while dreaming, and it took most of her life to work its way to her conscious mind. But as her body ached and begged for sleep, begged to stop, she wondered how she could have been so foolish. She would always be only what they decided for her. After vanishing from Russia she promptly learned there was no "life" for her to lead. So, she turned to freelancing. Having been raised for only one purpose, she traded the Red Room for the rest of the world's worst. She became an indiscriminate weapon, wielded by any who could afford her. Around the globe, her shadowy reputation grew. Countless enemies emerged in her bloody wake. No night was truly restful, no place ever really safe. At least in Russia there had been a cell and a cot that belonged to her. It was all sterile and cruel, but constant. Her new life made her worse than the monster she had tried to outrun. She became a ghost. Handsomely paid, but a ghost nonetheless.

Death, silence, fatigue. These were her world until the day she began to feel something like eyes watching her at a distance. There was no sound, not even a shadow. It was just a feeling. From that moment she went completely dark. Anyone seeking her services would come up empty. Without evidence, but unable to ignore instinct, she disappeared to another part of the world. The feeling dissipated. But soon after, no matter what she did, it returned in city streets, crowded bazaars, quiet lanes. The sensation continued to follow her until she accepted that she could not outrun it. She was tired. Whatever she had escaped in Russia was exactly what the world had waiting for her anyway. So she slowed down. She was tired and could no longer pretend there had ever been any options besides kill or be killed.

When the feeling inevitably returned, she stayed put and quickly became certain that it was more than a feeling. Someone, someone good at their job, had been watching her at every turn. Yet she was still alive.

As days continued to pass, now accustomed to being watched, she felt a sense of ease. She knew better than to believe being followed so closely would not end in death, still she liked having a constant in her life again. A point of reference was the closest to feeling "at home" someone like her could ever get. Effectively living underground, she had nothing else to do but simply exist under the unknown gaze. And it continued following from hotel balcony to street market until the night a pair of eyes glinted in the darkness before her.

She had been at the river, just watching it shimmer under the moonlight. The lamplit riverfront was the more direct walk back to her hotel, but she chose the shadowy streets. They beckoned her with familiar darkness. In perfect silence she moved through the night, the feeling following her closer than ever.

"You stopped running."

She stopped in her tracks, though the voice did not surprise her. She turned and saw a man standing just within shadow of an ancient church. Its walls climbed up into the dark, cutting the full moon in half. Down the way, windows glowed with warm light and the murmur of voices smoothed the cold edges of the night.

He stepped from the shadow, his rigid posture conveying no tension. In one hand he carried a bow and in the other an arrow taut and at the ready. Recognizing the absurdity, she felt no amusement. Her eyes fell to the stones fitted together at her feet.

"Why prolong the chase?"

"You want me to kill you?" He asked.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"So I do not have to kill you. ...I am tired."

"How 'bout a third option?"

"There is no third option."

"Sure there is."

His tone was completely foreign.

"Who are you?"

"Clint." Came the simple reply.

"Who sent you?"

"SHEILD."

A mirthless smirk came to her lips. So they were not quite as incompetent as she had thought.

"What do you want?"

"Well, you've been the common denominator for a lot of bad people and fractions are no fun. So they sent me to kill you so we can get back to good old regular numbers."

Her mind started to change about having energy enough to kill him.

She stared at him.

"Anyway," he said, "I've been watching you for a while now-"

"I know."

"I know you know."

The moon's glow revealed a slight but insufferable grin upon his face. She was definitely not too tired.

"So you have decided to talk until I kill myself?"

He laughed. "No, I thought I'd offer you a job."

Such a ludicrous suggestion deserved only one response.

"Hear me out." He said, seeming unphased by her gun suddenly trained on him. "You'd get to stop running. We can offer you asylum in exchange for your intel on... pretty much everyone."

"This is sanctioned by SHIELD?"

He scrunched his face a little "Not exactly, but I'm pretty sure I can sell it."

She scoffed at him tiredly and put her pistol away.

"Same stakes as right now." he shrugged. "What do you say?" He eased off the bowstring and put the arrow away in his quiver.

It was entirely nonsense. The SHIELD agent had tailed her so rigorously for so long and could have killed her countless times already. Why would he bring her back with him? Her intel could hardly be a necessary supplement to what SHIELD could gather on its own. But he was correct. Whether in SHIELD custody or standing on that street, the stakes would not change. She had nothing to lose and most likely nothing to gain

SHIELD would undoubtedly kill her. And undoubtedly she would kill Clint before that happened. Kill or be killed. Or, do both. He was right about a third option after all.

Her hands rose in casual surrender.

"Alright." was all she said.

* * *

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Title comes from a lyric in the song "All My Heroes" by Bleachers. It just really struck me. And then I started writing.

 _"And a love that I dreamt of came to me at my worst. And all the nights I don't remember are the ones I can't forget..."_


End file.
